Lo! Death has reared himself a throneIn a strange city lying aloneFar down within the dim West,Where the good and the bad and the worst and the bestHave gone to their eternal rest.There shrines and palaces and towers(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters he.

No rays from the holy heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town;But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently-Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-Up shadowy long-forgotten bowersOf sculptured ivy and stone flowers-Up many and many a marvellous shrineWhose wreathed friezes intertwineThe viol, the violet, and the vine.Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from a proud tower in the townDeath looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping gravesYawn level with the luminous waves;But not the riches there that lieIn each idol's diamond eye-Not the gaily-jewelled deadTempt the waters from their bed;For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass-No swellings tell that winds may beUpon some far-off happier sea-No heavings hint that winds have beenOn seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!The wave- there is a movement there!As if the towers had thrust aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide-As if their tops had feebly givenA void within the filmy Heaven.The waves have now a redder glow-

The hours are breathing faint and low-And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down that town shall settle hence,Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence.